


~pres̷ent~

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Friends Pick Edition, Gen, Graphic Description, Mouth stitched shut, Torture, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23327965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm called for backup and actually waited for it, but where were his friends? He needed them.For Bad Things Happen Bingo Friends Pick Edition prompt Mouth Stitched Shut.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 95
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	~pres̷ent~

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to AngelaFaye11 for providing critical feedback on key scenes to help me grow as a writer :) constructive conversation like hers keeps me going

Call for backup.

He had.

Wait for backup.

He had.

Where were his friends?

Malcolm's head shifted on the concrete, lolling when he tried to lift. Dazed, the smallest movements rolled his stomach. He remembered waiting in the trees and whacking the ground — where was the team? He looked in the other direction and his vision struggled against the tide to catch up — _fuck_ , his head.

“You’re awake.” Seasoned boots neared his face, the reddened leather beside his cheek.

“My friends — ”

“Are probably wondering where you are. Funny — I don’t seem to remember where that is.” The man towered over him at least six feet from Malcolm’s vantage point. Dirt wafted off the soles, revealing a trek to his captivity. Clay? Fungus? Run-of-the-mill sod?

"They'll look for me,” Malcolm warned.

"Oh, I don't think that matters." He chuckled, the tip of the sole tapping Malcolm’s face.

Malcolm’s hand curled in to try to brush his hair off his face and look at the man properly, yet it clinked in the space. A glance to the other side, and it was equally chained. He took in the weight on his chest, constraining his breaths, strapping him down to the floor as well. What the fuck? Even his ankles were chained. All four limbs rattled at once, desperate for release, yet found none.

“This isn’t okay,” Malcolm searched for any way out, stalling while processing the scene.

“ _Oh_ , it _is_ ,” his voice dripped with too much enjoyment. "You're gonna stay a little bit." His captor's smile split his face. "We're gonna make a present."

* * *

"What do you _mean_ you can't find him?" Gil complained as JT backed up the tape again. They’d hightailed it to the precinct as soon as a search of the warehouse hadn't turned up a Malcolm. Gil was wound tighter than the VHS JT kept fiddling with.

"He's waiting to the side, and then he just disappears." JT played it back again.

Gil rubbed his forehead in frustration, trying to get his point across. ”He wouldn't have — "

JT gave him a withering look, and he realized he was speaking like JT was a trainee. It was a fucking VHS tape — of _course_ they were having trouble seeing anything. Of all the places Malcolm could have been taken, couldn’t it have had technical upgrades past the eighties?

Gil took in a deep breath that raised his shoulders, trying again. “What's there that drew Bright in?”

“It’s warehouse space. Beyond that, who knows what shiny object. Dani’s looking into it.”

“Any other contact yet?”

“No.” JT looked over Gil, taking in wrinkles that carved deeper into his face, a blinking sign of arrows pointing everything was _not_ okay. “Gil, we’ll find him.”

* * *

Malcolm didn’t get a name, but he had plenty of a face. Thick red beard, tinted blonde near his lips and chin. Red hair to match, the shade a little darker. Blue eyes as bright as his. All the features put together, his profile was grim — he was a goner.

Muscular, able to carry himself without question, yet not someone who looked like he spent a lot of time at the gym. Machinist? Landscaper? As much as he inventoried each aspect of him, Malcolm still couldn’t discern who he was. Might as well be _Red_ , for now.

He was strong enough to have disarmed him. At a tap on his shoulder, Malcolm had thought it was one of the team meeting him to investigate what seemed to be someone held against their will, but the face he met brandished vicious teeth. To be fair, it was body versus body with plank, and with a swing, Malcolm lost. Defeat tasted like the aftermath of dry crackers lingering in his mouth for hours, brushing long overdue. Was that what he’d had for lunch? What time was it?

Red knelt over him, dark jeans rough against his cheek. Sweat from the day’s labor embedded in the weave, each movement brought a foul hint of musk that needed to be showered. Oh, what Malcolm would give to get clean — he turned his head away.

Red grabbed Malcolm by the chin with dirt-crusted fingers, Malcolm’s chains keeping him in submission. Would there be fingerprints from the dirt that lingered in the winding grooves? Traces of crust left behind from the man’s weathered nails? “This won’t hurt a bit.” Red smiled, a curved, thick upholstery needle gleaming in the light, his shining teeth a backdrop.

The needle Jackie had used to mend his pants was infinitely smaller, her fine stitches repairing scrapes and scuffs until he was whole again. What he’d give for her to be holding him instead of _this_.

“Do I know you?” Malcolm asked, unable to place the man in the litany of thoughts swirling in his head and continuing to try to slow his intent.

“We have a mutual acquaintance.” He shrugged. “Here nor there.”

The Surgeon? All the preparation to get him one with the floor spoke volumes of premeditation, where the 2x4? — 1x6? — 2x6? — tipped toward opportunity. Or _desire_ — his cheshire grin flared back at him.

As the silver advanced toward Malcolm’s face, the point threatened him into one of the few choices he could make. “ _Help!_ “ he hollered, taking a deep breath rushing past his lips and into his belly. “ _Help!_ “

“You think they’ll hear you? _Here?_ “ Red tsked, clasping Malcolm’s jaw tighter.

His gritty, calloused fingers snagged in his beard, crept closer to his mouth. With a swift tip of his head, Malcolm bit down ’til bone stopped his grasp. Red wailed, whipping his hand back and carrying a swinging whack across Malcolm’s face, knocking his head into the concrete.

The thunk rang a foghorn of pain back into the forefront, Malcolm’s ears tunneling, whooshing in the water his eyes swam in. His stomach rocked in the sea, taunting him he would be sick. The needle bobbed on the waves, yet by the similar bouncing of the man’s teeth behind it, he knew it was a fault in his vision, not a reality.

“Now stay put so I don’t have to activate that vest.” Red palmed his pants pocket.

 _Vest?_ “Bomb will kill you too,” Malcolm scoffed at the stupidity, regulating his breathing to try to tread water and keep the barrage of signals at bay.

“Knives won’t.” The needle encroached on his face again. “Let’s make the present, and you’ll be out of here.” His rough thumb caressed under his lips, and he flinched away from the touch.

What was he _doing_? Where was he going with this? Was this the annihilator all over again? Surely not — the whole family was dead or arrested. Wasn’t it? It was. Wasn’t it?

The point dragged on the line of his bottom lip, scratching along to find the perfect spot, then plunged like a fish hook, burrowing deep so he couldn’t get free. His deafening scream started at the poke and heightened as the needle drilled through his skin with resistance, dripping blood into his mouth and down his chin. His tongue felt for the damage, flicking against the cool metal, collecting the coppery drips and pressing like it would stop.

The head in, Malcolm tried not to struggle, knowing if he did, the tip might drift into another part of his mouth. If it ended up deep in his gullet, he’d really be reeled in. It was a spike of pain, but now that the movement had stopped, Malcolm thought it was manageable if he kept counting his breaths, retreating to a space in his head he could safely figure out who his captor was.

Red tipped Malcolm’s lip back between his thumb and forefinger, exposing his gums. “That’s it,” he coaxed, his eyes glowing. “Here’s the fun part.”

Stale sweat from Red’s shirt cuff brushed his nose in a noxious whiff as he jerked the needle, forcing the start of iridescent blue ribbon ripping through his skin. Agony didn’t begin to describe the tear as the material forced its way through a space too small, through a place not designed for window dressing. Malcolm yelled, his pain bouncing off the ceiling, but that tugged the ribbon, making the piercing suffering even worse.

Though the start required the most effort, the savage pain persisted as Red pulled the long ribbon on a slow trek through his skin, a low rub trembling to his ears. Malcolm’s cry whined as the amount of ribbon left reduced, eventually ending in a knot at the edge of his lip.

Torture wasn’t how he’d expected to get the first piercing of his life. As his lip swelled and bled, trailing spent blood toward his ear, he wondered what his mother would have said if he came home with a lip ring. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to find out.

“There we go. One down.” Red patted his cheek and flashed a grin, and Malcolm turned away from the touch again. The joy Red got from his actions was oppressive, adding to the weight on Malcolm’s chest.

Red approached his upper lip, sliding his thumb underneath and feeling for the perfect spot. Malcolm rolled his tongue back to avoid any chance of accidental taste. The needle pricked again and Malcolm screamed, blood trailing to his nose, spilling down his teeth, and dripping onto his tongue. Threading the needle through his lip was unbearable, the pain unlike anything he’d experienced.

“There, there — it’s about to get a bit quieter.” Red’s hand returned to his cheek, and this time Malcolm ignored it, the continual throb from his maimed lips drawing more attention.

Red pulled the ribbon through, blood flowing faster than Malcolm could swallow, the metallic taste lingering on his tongue. Red tightened the ribbon until the blood-soaked fabric glittered under the lamp. The ribbon darkened to a deep rust Malcolm watched stagger under his nose as it got hung up, yet the iridescent material was still intact. Tears streamed toward his ears, distorting his vision.

“Two.”

Three, four, five, and six followed similarly until he tried to yell and the stitches pulled. Blood pooling in his mouth made him want to spit, made him sick, made him — he gagged to the side, only blood and stomach acid coming out. He spit, trying to rid the excess while he had the chance.

“You’ll want to keep quiet, kid.”

“ _Ahhh!_ ” The memory of Gil crept to the forefront, and the ribbon cut into his skin, ringing the damage back to his ears. His vision blurred under the assault — between the probable concussion and ribbon suturing, he didn’t know if he’d last. He’d pull himself apart with the force of his vocalizations before he finished.

“Shhhhh,” whispered against his ear, the seamstress picking up again.

Malcolm pawed for dinner in Gil and Jackie’s kitchen, stakeouts when he couldn’t sleep, playing hide and seek with Ainsley — any positive memory to keep him from falling to his captor. He couldn’t concentrate on determining Red’s identity anymore, but he could try to stay awake, he _needed_ to stay awake.

Prick to push to pull, the stitches continued through his skin, filling his mouth with a blood moat as soon as he stopped swallowing. Seventeen in total, finishing at a far end. Tears left sandy trails of salt behind to his ears. Blood dried into his beard, over his jaw in tracks toward his ears, into his nose. Anywhere gravity took it and managed to get thin enough to halt, dry, and crack, adding weird sensations of texture to his face.

He needed a shower, he needed Gil, he needed a _hospital_ — panic he’d been swallowing, but could no longer stomach. His hands jangled the chains, knocked the concrete, but he couldn’t reach for any safer ground.

Calloused fingers padded under his eye, soothing his cheek. “Good boy.”

Fucking shit, not _him_. His ordeal had been Martin-less, and it still went to shit. His eyes bounced around the room — no, _not_ —

Blood and trauma swelled Malcolm's lips, giving each breath he tried to take in a piercing addition. “A little tied up, my boy?” The Surgeon admired from the side, his red sweater tight over his tie.

His captor moved and extra light shone on him. “My little present,” he grinned.

Red sat back, admiring his handiwork. Prepared a syringe to quiet his panicking captive. Straightened the arms of a long, white cloth. Conversed back and forth with The Surgeon.

With the prick of a needle, Malcolm’s world went quiet.

* * *

First, he saw tipped down back seats. Felt the bounce of pavement bubbled and cracked through too many winters, yet not fixed, in every stab through his lips, every pound into his head. Inhaled stale blood on every breath, doing little to settle his stomach.

Judging by the rows of seats, Malcolm came to in the back seat of an SUV, strapped into the furthest set from the front. The haze of drugs and concussion made focusing challenging, yet he breathed through his nose, tapped his fingers to try to ignore the smell, and managed. So much saliva and blood lingered in his mouth, he needed to spit, needed to get out — breathed, two, three, four — managed.

He tried to touch the damage thrumming in his face, only to find his hands were clasped at his sides. He struggled, his shoulders trying to push out, but they caught in the jacket. The white _straight jacket_ that pulled his arms across his front and tied them to his back, wrapping him into a neat package. He abandoned any hope of reaching the seat belt.

“Awake again,” Red observed, watching his movements in the rearview mirror.

“Escape, my boy,” The Surgeon encouraged next to him.

His red sweater brushed against Malcolm’s white, reaching for his hands. “Always such a weak thing.”

Malcolm shook in the seat, trying to avoid the touch. “Listen to me — “

Malcolm jerked, tipping toward the driver’s side.

“Stop!” Red drew his attention, righting him. “You’ll be delivered soon.”

They rode on, Malcolm sitting with The Surgeon in the ultimate quiet game. Malcolm didn’t know where they were going, yet the man didn’t seem to care to hide him under the divider in the trunk. In the back seat, his head centered, he was on display for all to see.

Except no one looked. A thousand places to be, none of them this SUV.

 _He_ had places to be too. They were all headed to the scene when it had happened. People were looking for him. They knew he was missing. Someone _cared_.

He was too far away to angle his head to look in the rearview or sideview mirrors. He tried looking in the windows, but they didn’t help either. What did his face look like? His old laced up boxing gloves? Ainsley’s tight braids as a kid? The Surgeon’s practiced stitches? Did it look as gross as it felt, blown up like a pufferfish? Was he the nightmare? He abandoned his quest to see and stuck to looking out the window.

They turned down the street he was so familiar with. The street he walked every day. The street that brought him a breath of fresh air when he panicked, a place to pace where he wouldn’t disturb everyone else. The street his door opened on, and the man jerked him out to the stairs.

“I want to see Gil Arroyo, now!” Red’s gun cocked, pointing straight at Malcolm’s head where he had dropped, facing the street.

He had a gun? This whole time? It had never showed up in the basement. What had happened to the knives? Gun was not opportunity, gun was not pleasure, gun was death — death — _death —_

He wanted to shout, “Everyone, go _inside_!” To holler, “Get down, _hide_!” To scream until everyone else was out of danger, at home with fathers and mothers having dinner, playing with sisters.

But he couldn’t open his mouth.

The Surgeon skipped around the stairs, looking for patrons slow to heed the warning. At the precinct in the middle of the day, asking for help, asking for things to make the world better, not —

“Such a nice little present,” Red smiled, licking his lips.

JT was nearly outside to get the team lunch when the commotion scrambled through the door. One glimpse out, and he called for ESU. A second, and he booked it back to Gil.

* * *

Gil’s hand turned back and forth under the light over his desk. Glint — glint. At the right angle, it was Jackie’s smile, her eyes gleaming back at him, a touch on her lips begging to be kissed. His thumb played with the band, feeling for memories.

Surely, she could help find their kid. He was missing something. Something obvious. Something JT or Dani would poke him about in jest, and they’d all get a solemn smirk over much later.

“Gil, come _now_!” JT stumbled in his door, and Gil didn’t bother to respond, just hopped out of his chair after him.

It was blackout 2.0. Except their kid was on the ground, not eye to eye to stare the bastard down. In a straight jacket only nightmares were made of. Martin Whitly had better accommodations.

“Give me Gil Arroyo, now!” The bellow came again, rattling the windows.

JT opened the door a crack and Gil called through. “I’m here. Who am I speaking with?” Officers around them looked for possible angles out the windows.

“You’re the Lieutenant. Get one of your detectives on it. I have a present for you.” He kicked at Malcolm with his foot, nudging him. “Turn around, kid.”

 _Shit_ — _shit_ — _shit_ , that’s his name for him. Words of safety, not hostage situations. “Bright, you okay?” Gil called, unable to get a very good look at him.

But as Malcolm strained himself up to sitting and turned, Gil caught his gleaming mouth in the noonday sun. The blood that had dried dripped down and across his face. The unbridled terror in the pinpoints of his eyes. The remains of tears parched at the top of his cheeks. The shake that wracked his whole body and wouldn’t stop.

“Shit,” JT cursed next to him. An army of police officers poised with guns at the ready, instead of reaching for his gun, he grabbed scissors from the reception desk, anticipating what they were going to need next.

“I just wanted to see the look on your face when you got it.” The man grinned in appreciation. “I’ll be going.”

He stepped backward to his vehicle, pulling away without firing a shot. JT relayed the license plate, leaving it to other officers to give chase, and Gil was out to the stairs, holding their kid up.

Malcolm’s wide eyes didn’t look anywhere but Gil. He tried to stretch his mouth, but yet again, the ribbon pulled and cut him, sending dribbles of blood down his chin, marring his jacket at the neck.

JT tapped the scissors into Gil’s hand, and it took a moment to register what he was giving him. As soon as it did, Gil looked at Malcolm’s mangled lips, trying to figure out how he could help without hurting him. Evidence be damned — he needed to make it easier for their kid to breathe.

JT worked the straight jacket, methodically undoing a clang of buckles and straps until Malcolm’s arms were free for him to hold onto. JT took his hand in a firm grip, trying to draw his attention while Gil worked.

Gil slid the blade in between the largest gap at the center, thinking he could practice how it would be possible to cut Malcolm out before going to some of the more difficult bits. He closed the blades, yet the telltale snip didn’t come — the scissors didn’t budge. He tried again, but the blades rubbed, touching against Malcolm’s lip to his flinch — nothing was cut. The scissors weren’t sharp enough.

The pressure from the blades just made it worse, tugging at one end of the ribbon or the other, Malcolm whimpering and tearing before his eyes, so Gil gave up.

“My pocket knife’s inside,” JT shared.

“Go get it.” Gil held Malcolm’s hand JT left behind, running his thumb along the knuckles.

JT ran into the building, brushing shoulders with Dani shouting at fellow officers to stay back, passing by reception, flying around the corner, swinging to his desk. He snatched the pocket knife just as quickly and retraced his steps.

Gil started in the middle again, the tiny scissor blades on the pocket knife making a good enough cut to break the fabric. He repeated the process at the next one to similar effect, the pieces of chopped ribbon bending back. Little by little he made his way down to the corner, taking care to watch Malcolm’s face for reaction. He completed the same on the other side, sighing in relief when he cleared the piece closest the knot.

He finished, but there wasn’t a triumphant gasp of air. Wasn’t Malcolm relaxing in his arms, finally able to take in a full breath. Freedom was out of reach somewhere where Malcolm looked over his shoulder.

Just like the seam in the fine pants Malcolm wore, there was still another row of stitches to cut on the inside. Bracketed between the mangled flesh, on a garment they’d easily slip them out, but in Malcolm’s _mouth_ , he couldn’t do that.

“What the actual fuck?” JT let escape, his back turned, standing blocking the view between them and the building, yet everyone heard him anyway.

It was more difficult to reach the inside row, taking into account not hitting Malcolm’s teeth, cutting through his lip, slipping into his gums. Gil proceeded with the scissors, cut by cut unzipping him, wincing every time he hit something that he shouldn't have. When he reached the last piece, Malcolm opened his mouth in a cracking sob. “ _Gil_.”

“Shh, kid.” Malcolm startled, but settled when Gil pulled him into his shoulder, careful to avoid his head. Remnants of ribbon stuck out in every which way from his lips.

His initial sob turned into a rolling wail as the pain shot through his mouth, around his head, diving so deep into his ears he didn’t know whether the sounds came from outside or within. He leaned over, sick, spitting saliva, blood, and stomach acid, his lips burning under all the stress.

Gil held him in a sheltering embrace, keeping him close until the cavalry _finally_ showed up. JT stepped away to brief the first officers, and Gil stayed with Malcolm, the paramedics getting him onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, Gil trailing along with their kid.

* * *

When Gil next saw Malcolm, bandages covered large swaths of his lower face. An IV pole was next to the bed. “Worried about infection,” Malcolm explained, his speech a bit garbled.

“ _Malcolm_.” His appearance was a night and day improvement, but he still couldn’t bear the destruction. His lips had ballooned with swelling in deep red, making Gil think they might pop.

“I’m okay.”

Gil stood next to his bed, getting a closer look at his face. “How’s the pain?”

“I’m pretty high.” He wanted to smile, to show Gil things were fine, but it’d pull into a grimace he didn't want to risk.

Without narcotics, Gil didn't think he'd be able to talk. Gil rubbed the top of the blanket beside him instead of holding his hand, leaving it up to Malcolm to decide the contact. “What’s the damage?”

“Scars to try to hide in my beard.” Malcolm touched his jaw with his fingertips, yet it had been shaved clean.

Malcolm took Gil’s hand, giving it a squeeze that Gil returned stronger.

“I can give you a description.” Malcolm thought of the interview that hadn’t yet happened. “I _saw_ him. Red.”

“You know — “

“What I called him — red hair, beard, boots, infatuation with blood…” He shrugged.

"We got him on a whole lot of cameras." Gil pointed out, his eyes widening in emphasis. “Anything else you can tell us about him?”

“He likes bondage. Tied me tight to the floor, in the jacket.” He kept the facts brief, not wanting to give them enough color to relive them.

“Floor where?” Gil's thumb kept counting Malcolm's knuckles.

“Basement maybe?”

“Any other identifying characteristics?”

Malcolm shook his head. “Basement was concrete. Red — just what you saw at the precinct.”

“Where’d he take you from?”

“Outside the building. I _promise_ Gil — I stayed put.” Malcolm’s eyes pleaded for forgiveness for transgressions he hadn’t committed.

Gil’s eyes softened. “I know — we saw that on video.”

“So you knew where, too?”

“Yeah, but it’s a little weird.” The hostage lead a dead end, they hadn’t been able to find him before he showed up on the precinct steps.

“Weird how?”

“You just… _disappeared_.” Pulled out of frame, camera glitch, or something.

“He knocked me out, I think. Woke up there.” His eyes closed, taking an extra moment to force his thoughts to the background.

Gil squeezed his hand tighter. “Alright — too much talking for you.”

“I don’t feel a thing.”

“Think that has something to do with the morphine.” Gil smiled, getting glimpses of his kid in his word choice and subtle gestures.

"Oh — he might know The Surgeon," Malcolm added after his eyes drifted and stayed closed.

Way to bury the lede.

* * *

JT walked into the room, and his eyes telegraphed what he didn’t say.

“Look who’s finally quiet,” Malcolm provided for JT, his eyes smiling even though his mouth didn’t move much.

“Funny.” JT smiled, sitting in an open chair near him. “How you doin’?”

“Well, I don’t look like _Saw_ anymore, so…improvement?”

“Fair.” JT raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen that?”

“Bits and pieces.” Malcolm’s smirk was almost visible.

JT chuckled and looked out the window.

“Can I _finally_ be useful for something?” Malcolm begged.

Another officer had interviewed Malcolm and taken his statement, but JT played along to keep him company. Maybe talking helped him process in his mile-a-minute Bright sort of way. “Guy wanted it out for Gil — he say anything?”

Malcolm shook his head. “Just that I was his present.”

"Why did you even go there?"

Malcolm shrugged — the usual. "Followed who I thought was a victim."

“What happened while you were with him?”

“Captivity, you mean? Got that wonderful stitch job. _Super weird_.”

JT met his eyes and shared a soft smile. “People these days.”

JT kept up the game of chatter until Malcolm's response was a mumble and he fell back to sleep.

* * *

The whiteboard they were supposed to stay away from was filled with pieces of evidence pointing to Telly Crowell, a mason come contract killer connected to one John Watkins. With John in prison, that left present by proxy his only option. Little Malcolm was Gil’s kid, information John had exploited on a whim when the opportunity presented. Problem was, they couldn't find Telly, _and_ they couldn’t prove it. JT and Dani sat staring at the whiteboard after hours when they thought no one saw them.

What better way for John to impress Martin than deliver a blow to his enemy? What better way to remind the kid to keep his mouth shut than to help him mend the distance? What better way to get back at the guy whose team arrested him?

The Surgeon was only worried about _his_ boy, decrying the crime any time an officer went to talk to him, and Gil was more than concerned for his kid who needed to successfully battle and clear an infection to leave the hospital.

They didn’t catch him. Didn’t get to have the peace of mind that came with a criminal caged, unable to harm them. Gil sat at his desk, twisting his ring, looking at his team in the conference room.

“I’ve got him, Jackie.”

His ring shined in the light.

Their kid.

The best gift.

 _Shit_ — the thought darkened.

Glint.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
